All I Wanna Be Is (By Your Side)
by Laineyvb131
Summary: Henry wants nothing more than to be the man beside the woman, but the transition from the State Department to a presidential campaign isn't what he expected.
1. Henry

_[Peter Frampton songs are always appropriate for our favorite couple. Thanks, dude, for loaning me the title to this one.]_

Henry listens half-heartedly as Blake explains why Elizabeth will be late yet again that night. His mind wanders, not paying attention after the first sentence, as has become his habit over the past few days. He scrubs his hand over his face, distractedly realizing he hadn't bothered to shave again, sighing at the thought of another evening alone.

These quiet nights were once a welcome respite to read, or work on research for another book, in the midst of a busy week of family life. But now the kids are gone, as they should be- Alison with her college friends in a new apartment, Stevie either with Blake (which is still a bit awkward for Henry, if he thinks about it too much) or working on her mother's campaign. Jason spends weeknights back in the city protesting the lack of wifi and distance from his friends. Henry has doubts about their decision- another one that both of them agreed on wholeheartedly, at the time- to come back to the farmhouse, with nothing much more to do than stare at the sky. Normally, he wouldn't mind, sitting on the porch with Elizabeth, sharing a bottle of wine, but those nights are literally just dreams now. He thought she wanted the same, but demands she couldn't ignore changed those priorities for her, and although she could've said no, Henry knew she really couldn't say no. Not now. Not with the decisions they've made and the process they'd set in motion. Together. Fate, again, perhaps, that even the force of her will couldn't completely control. Maybe he should join Jason in Georgetown a few nights a week, at least to attempt some father-son bonding over Call of Duty or Overwatch or some other online battle. Henry bets Stevie has seen Elizabeth more than he has in the past 3 weeks, and she hasn't even declared her candidacy yet. Henry isn't naive, isn't new to this life- the hours Elizabeth kept as Secretary of State were nothing short of insane. Even in the CIA, post 9/11, he'd hardly see her for days on end. Yet they managed to spend time together, finding an hour here, or a night there, doing dishes or bowling or watching baseball games on TV. They managed to work through their struggles over the years, sometimes just hanging on until the crisis subsided, holding tight to their commitment to marriage when they could find nothing else to cling to, not even each other. They had moments- some rough times stretching for months, even years, on end, both of them heartsick at issues they couldn't seem to reconcile- but somehow always made it back to their circle of two.

He's been solo in their marriage more often than not, he thinks now, but never really considered his role as a father in such a way. He'd left Elizabeth alone during his deployments, before they were parents, but never wanted to do that to her again. He never minded being the parent at home, taking on the majority of the familial and household responsibilities while Elizabeth built a career of her own. He could adjust his schedule more easily, more practically, to wrangle soccer practices and referee bickering over dinner and cajole the kids into finishing homework. He loved the time, actually, learning to enjoy the nuances of his bright, inquisitive children as they grew into their own personalities, developed into miniature combinations of he and Elizabeth in ways that never failed to astonish him. He'd never regret those years as a father. And Elizabeth would come home to them, fitting into that puzzle like the piece that was missing. Sure, some weeks- months, even- the calendar filled to the extreme and he felt run ragged driving one kid here and picking up the other there, even with a village of friends to help if he asked. He didn't ask much. Parenting was his responsibility, his joy, and Henry always felt the need- sometimes the guilt- to handle all of those tasks even to the detriment of his well being.

Even though the dynamic became more difficult after Baghdad, and their marriage was tested beyond anything they could have imagined, Team McCord found their rhythm when Elizabeth joined him at UVA. Once she began teaching, his schedule lined up with hers more often than not. They created a new definition of normal, one that uniquely suited their marriage, and provided joy and fulfillment and intimacy. The kids were older, more self-sufficient. School buses and Stevie's ability to drive eased the frantic schedules at home. The kids spent more time with their friends, and in after school activities, and he and Elizabeth could just be Henry and Elizabeth. Those years were admittedly some of his favorite of their marriage, the joint commute to campus- sometimes not so quiet, peppered with lively debates over politics or students or sports or even the latest campus gossip. He loved visiting his wife in her office, surprising her with coffee, his reward a beautiful smile, or catching her in a classroom after a lecture, making out in a corner, frenzied and passionate, before she'd push him away with a laugh. Elizabeth wasn't the only one turned on by a hot professor. She'd catch his fingers in hers when passing in a hallway, lace her arm through his on their evening walk back to the car, full of stories of her students or using him as a sounding board for a particularly challenging analysis in her own research. Their home office spaces merged into a shared room, and at night, they'd grade papers in the quiet after the kids were asleep, desk lamps shining like beacons, or at opposite ends of the couch, their feet tangled together under a fluffy blanket. Those were his most cherished memories, during the time when the pressures of the world weren't literally keeping Elizabeth up at night, and they only had to worry about Alison's latest boyfriend or Stevie's weekly choice of rebellion or Jason's scuffles on the playground.

He believes in Elizabeth, maybe more strongly than she believes in herself, knowing in his heart she can actually make a difference in the world, rather than just using the phrase as a trite cliche to patch up wounds that can't be healed or create a sound bite for points in the polls. He's so proud of her, never missing the chance to boldly state 'that's my wife', proud that she wants to carry his name while simultaneously being so independent. Even now, McCord is the name that could become President, and he's humbled at the possibility. He never could figure out why society seemed to think he shouldn't be any of those things 'as a man'. They'd agreed to a presidential run, together, after a long, seemingly endless conversation- multiple conversations over sleepless nights, to be honest- in which Elizabeth questioned her intentions and his reasoning and they always circled back to the same conclusion. His support of her legacy came without deception or hesitation, his commitment to be the man beside the woman as sincere and full of love now as it was 30 years ago. He resigned his position with The White House, concerned with the conflict of interest while she was campaigning, but more so with his role as her husband- much to Conrad's consternation, even though the President himself fully understood the demands of the spouse of a presidential candidate. She needs him to campaign for her, with her, to be places she can't, to speak to the people she won't be able to reach, but he would. Henry thinks he's anticipating the challenge, to influence the American people who don't yet believe in his wife like he does, to share with them her heart and compassion and brilliance and the unique gifts that will make her an outstanding leader. He wants to stand beside her as she speaks, so eloquently and passionately, to then share those private glances and secret smiles, to be the man to whom she turns at the end of the day, their fingers entwining again, no words needed between them.

There's no place he'd rather be, and yet he doesn't know where he should be, because here he is, alone again at night. He tolerated a few campaign meetings, some official, some not, but got annoyed with Mike B and his endless rantings and vague suggestions of what Henry could do. They'd moved back to the farmhouse with the intention of creating a central meeting point, a safe haven, to allow them all to escape the press before Elizabeth made her official announcement. But after a week, Elizabeth tasked Blake with finding another campaign headquarters. She claimed the staff was too underfoot for the farm to feel like a home, that she needed a definite line between politics and their personal lives. She wanted space for just she and Henry to devote time to their marriage, to find safety and security in each other. But then she was never home, and the personal and politics blended back together in a blurred jumble of never-ending phone calls and emails. Mike B and Blake and Jay constantly argued and debated Elizabeth's campaign strategy, while she half ignored them and wrote her own speeches with Matt hovering anxiously nearby. Until she and her team solidified a plan, Henry knew he was essentially superfluous, and the constant noise began to grate on his nerves. He understood eventually Elizabeth would need him, and he'd be there without hesitation when she did. But at this specific moment, without his own job or kids to shuffle or dinner to make- because what was the point of cooking for one (or two if Jason happened to be around)- he felt useless. He could edit Elizabeth's speech- her adamant plea prior to her Camp David retreat was rather endearing- but every time he approached her about doing so, she was dragged in another direction for another decision. He could just do it, he could access her computer and she wouldn't mind, on the contrary, would welcome his input. But he really wanted her to ask him, to take the time to seek him out and include him in some piece of this future of hers. This future that centered around her, but was supposed to be theirs to share.

The nighttime hours are endless, tonight more so than normal. He can't focus on the pages of his book, has even tried reading an old favorite, but can't settle. He flips mindlessly through TV channels, actually missing the sight of his wife on CNN or CSPAN or whatever news channel felt the need to analyze her policies. He'd take even the criticism over the absence of her altogether. They'd texted once or twice that day, vague comments, and then Blake suddenly became the touchpoint for any messages from his wife and he lost that connection, too.

Henry hears Elizabeth enter the house, but can't see his clock in the darkness of the bedroom. He doesn't bother to find his glasses, because really, the time makes no difference. She's been gone too long at this point, regardless. He hears the refrigerator door, muffled, and her feet on the hardwood. All of these noises are so unfamiliar, so different from the brownstone, which maybe is unsettling him, as well. He feels the mattress dip, then Elizabeth's hand sweep over his arm, her lips on his shoulder, murmuring her apologies for waking him. He wants to ignore her, wants to stew in his resentment- because, if he thinks about his feelings too hard, he'll admit he's resentful of the demands on his wife, for her attention, of this campaign, of what he's given up for her, because of her. But he can't, and turns to her automatically, taking her in his arms. He needs those moments with her, whatever he can get, even the scraps left over in the endless cycle of this process. In the silence, he finds her lips with his, warm, familiar, then strokes her skin with his fingertips. They're past the point of needing words in their marriage, and yet he finds himself at a loss for the ones he really needs to voice out loud, to share with her, that he so desperately wants her to hear. He craves more than a physical connection, more than just sex, but can't bring himself to stop, for fear of losing even this part of her, of them. And then she's above him, and he's buried deep in her wet heat, her lips against his ear whispering how much she loves him, her fingers toiling through his hair in the way she knows he loves. He surrenders to his climax, to the bliss of their intimacy, finishing her with a thumb against her clit, and Elizabeth collapses against his chest, warm and pliant in his embrace. In that moment, just that moment, he finally has his wife, just the two of them- Henry and Elizabeth- without a presidential nomination or fundraising concerns or campaign demands tearing them apart. His brain can stop racing, can stop trying to find logical answers in the emotional chaos. But after a heartbeat, she pulls away, again full of apologies as she shifts off him and reaches for her phone, and he's left bereft and alone as she moves to the bathroom, replying to messages from just those seemingly few minutes they had together while she readies for bed. Instead of following her, Henry cleans himself up with tissues from his nightstand, pulling up his boxers, shifting to his side. He sighs into the night, more loudly than he should, hoping Elizabeth hears him and notices his mood. But she doesn't, and only the dim light of her phone precedes her journey back to their bed, with no acknowledgment of him, and other than the flashing of her fingers over the keypad he wouldn't know she was there.

He's used to her bringing work home, into their bed, even being interrupted by phone calls in the middle of sex. But somehow, this is different, or feels different, anyway- more distance, more demands pulling her focus in every direction but at him. After navigating the initial transition to Washington, they'd found ways to include each other, despite national security or the NSA or whoever decreed they shouldn't. But now he's on the outside again. And he knows he should tell her, to talk to his wife before something more than resentment builds, before he shifts into anger. If he could get her undivided attention, or even a sliver of it, for ten minutes, even five, he'd try to explain. But he also feels guilty, because he agreed to this, promised to support her, and now he's going back on his word. He isn't really, he's still here, still with her, but yet, he's not happy, feels the restlessness and resentment like claws in his belly, so maybe he has betrayed his promise to her. He doesn't want Elizabeth to think he resents her or has changed his mind or to add the worry and stress about her marriage to her already overly full list of responsibilities. He shouldn't feel resentful of his wife's success. He doesn't, really, but is starting to hate her sole focus on everything but him. He just wants to be a part of her life, of her future, to not feel like an afterthought, or a tool to get her elected. So he brushes off his feelings, willing them away in the daylight, but they creep back with a vengeance in the loneliness of their bed. He only remembers feeling this lonely, this alone, really, a few, horrible times in their marriage, and the comparison is as unsettling as the thoughts that won't let him rest.

As Elizabeth settles into bed behind him, and he hears her breathing deepen, part of his brain knows she's exhausted and distracted and just forgot to tell him goodnight. She still didn't, though, and they never forget to end their day with a kiss. Her rule originally, not his, which makes the slight hurt more. They've tried to not take anger or fights into their marriage bed, unless things are bad, and things aren't bad. Yet. Henry wouldn't consider their marriage even rocky. This is all on him, and he owns that, but even when one of them isn't in sync, they've drifted apart in the past. Slowly, sometimes, without either of them realizing, rather than suddenly, from an obvious disagreement or difficult incident. Those rifts might be harder to repair than the ones they're aware of. He can't let them get to that point, not over this. He promised her, promised them. But he also knows he won't be able to shut off the part of his brain that's stirring up the emotions and thinking and wishing more than he should that they could go back to the simpler life, when he wasn't sharing his wife with the rest of the free world.

_Author's note: So this is a bit different than my normal style of writing, and to be honest, is driving my perfectionist muse a bit bonkers (with the changes in tense and grammatically incorrect sentences, at the very least). A comment on one of the behind the scenes photos from season 6 about Henry's presence (something like "finally, there he is" or "Henry is alive", to paraphrase) apparently prompted this stream of consciousness rambling (a redundancy, to be sure). I wondered what the campaign transition process would be like for Henry, knowing their lives would so drastically change again, with neither he nor Elizabeth really knowing what to expect, but while wholeheartedly supporting his wife, he would also be watching from the wings, so to speak. I hope his internal conflict comes through, both in character, and as I intended from the thoughts in my head. _


	2. Elizabeth

_I am completely floored at the response to the first chapter. Thank you, so much, for reading, and for your lovely comments. I hadn't intended to write more, initially. Henry's thoughts seemed complete in my mind, even though he's very much in limbo emotionally, and in his place in his wife's world. However, your response, and the realization that I have a WIP that could serve as a postlude of sorts to this story- plus an offline discussion- caused me to rethink that plan. I always seem to write from Elizabeth's perspective, even though I adore Henry, and he's always present in my stories, somewhere. Perhaps just the natural gravitation to the female character. Yet, somehow, Henry's thoughts came much more easily to mind than did Elizabeth's, but I hope you find just this as interesting, poignant and true to character._

_And yes, the romantic and fluffy is coming, in Day's Dawning. I promise. Stay tuned. But we have to get through the angst, first._

* * *

_Chapter 2: Elizabeth_

Elizabeth sighs as she replies to yet another email while Blake is calling Henry, telling him that she'll be late, yet again. She's not even sure her responses are coherent anymore, or what exactly she's agreeing to. 'Just make them happy' is Mike B's mantra these days, and something about getting her supporters on the Bess Express. She doesn't even have to ask Blake to contact Henry, he knows her too well, knows the routine from the State Department. He's communicated with her husband for her so many times in the past few weeks, she's starting to feel like Blake is taking up the other half of her marriage, the half where she should be. She texted Henry a few times that morning, trying to start a conversation, unable to ever continue a thought, and his vague replies soon dwindled to none at all. At one point, Mike B actually tried to take her phone, claiming she was too distracted by pillow chat, and he needed her to focus. She actually yelled at him, is pretty sure she let fly a few choice words, and stormed out of the sudden awkward, stark silence in the room. Her staff has seen her angry before, but this tirade was close to a temper tantrum, even though Mike B deserved every ounce of her wrath, and then some. She saw the shock on Stevie's face before her daughter could mask it, the quick glance at Blake she tried unsuccessfully to hide.

Elizabeth laughed at the example of her children's complete lack of any tradecraft skill. She needed that levity- that normalcy- to settle her emotions. She hasn't seen her kids, other than Stevie, in weeks, and then barely in between meetings. Granted, Alison was back in a college routine, and she deserved to be, to live her own life. Jason stayed in Georgetown with friends more than he was at the farmhouse, and insisted on finishing high school there. The younger two tried to get as far away from their mother as possible, but she couldn't begrudge them their choices, especially since she wouldn't be able to shield them from all the press in the campaign. Elizabeth hated that she couldn't protect her children from the public scrutiny. This was her world, her career, and her kids shouldn't have to bear the brunt of the criticism and attention and outright hatred heaped on her by politics and partisanship and the media. And yet they did, and Elizabeth was even more acutely aware that parents could never completely shield their children from growing up, and hers had to become adults much more quickly than was fair. Stevie was the only child who had anything resembling normal teenage years, and Elizabeth actually missed the drama of boyfriends and independence and driving privileges and broken curfews that seemed so earth-shattering at the time, and now were so mundane in comparison. She's lost so much time with her kids, investing herself at the CIA during those precious early years, and as much as she's tried to make up the memories, to coach soccer and chair PTA that one disastrous school year, to teach them about horses, and learn about video games, she never expected to repeat that cycle of being absent. Even though they'd all agreed, and Team McCord voted unanimously on their Washington move, she knows the kids almost felt they had no choice. The President of the United States- and not just the President, but an old family friend- asked their mom to serve, and how were they supposed to say no to that request. Her children are all bright and independent, thanks more to Henry than herself, she thinks, and she knows they're fine and thriving. But the mother in her won't ever completely reconcile the guilt or the time spent away from them, not being at dinner or home on the weekends, or interrupting family time with world crises or summons to The White House.

She lets herself into the farmhouse, quietly, or as quietly as she can in her exhausted haze. She doesn't remember where the light switches are, which is more unsettling than it should be to her. The farmhouse was supposed to feel like home, to be home in the midst of the chaos that would certainly come with a presidential campaign. But it didn't feel that way, not with her staff there all the time, with no boundaries between professional and personal, no space for she and Henry to just be their circle of two. Maybe they'd been gone too long, maybe she was trying to find something they'd left behind permanently, lost in a life to which they'd never quite be able to return. So she essentially kicked out the staff right after they settled in, with Blake sighing and Mike B's not so subtle comments, and she just didn't care. She needed them out, and yet, when everyone was gone, the restlessness still churned in the house. She thought the distance would help her regain some order, some control, but she's still not maintained that barrier. Mike B insists on having a driver for her, which annoys her to no end. She was looking forward to some independence while not having a security detail, but apparently she's not even allowed to drive her own damn car. He or Blake picks her up every morning, starting with demands and decisions before she's even closed the door, although Blake still always brings her coffee and pastries while managing to look both embarrassed and apologetic. Blake and Mike B bicker like children, she swears more than her children ever possibly did- although maybe she's just in denial since they're essentially empty nesters now- and by the time they actually reach her campaign headquarters, she nearly dives out of the car. And then the chaos just escalates, as Jay joins in the arguments- they're not disagreeing, but debating, they claim- with fundraisers to plan and supporters to placate and mega bundlers to entice- whatever the hell those are. She knew she'd hate this part of the process, which is why she puts up with Mike B and his antics- his brilliance hidden in snark and cynicism- knowing he really does want what's best for her, in his own, self-serving way. She tries to focus on the bigger picture, the end goal, on the imprecise, unstable world she can change with her magic rake. She pours herself into writing her own speeches, despite Matt's anxious hovering, mostly to remind herself of her reasons for running, to put some real, consequential meaning into her need to lift people up. She's articulated her policies before, in general, sweeping terms, but now they have to get serious and specific, all while considering the sobering realities of politics.

She needs Henry- he always knows her better than she knows herself, knows what she wants to say before the words even materialize in her head. He was always her best sounding board, whether at State or in their days at UVA. They'd gotten so used to sharing everything, from her research analysis or lecture curriculum to pages and pages of his manuscripts. She misses those days. She misses searching for him in the library, watching him teach with such passion, his face animated, his eyes lit with excitement, knowing he'd have that passion later for her. The petty inner child in her loved the reaction from Henry's students (because all the co-eds loved his classes for more than the topics) when they realized the other Professor McCord was indeed his wife- his blonde, beautiful, brilliant wife, Henry reminded her so often- and not some ugly old hag they'd all secretly hoped she would be. She actually had that confidence then, a carefree nonchalance, not caring about how the world perceived her appearance as a woman. She was secure in her place in academia, in her intelligence, in finally reaching a point in her career where she was judged on her mind and knowledge- mostly, because the patriarchy still existed, but she'd made an impression. Elizabeth couldn't help her amusement, really, at those girls fawning over Henry- she was only human- even though his handsome exterior was just icing on the cake to the brilliant, kind, compassionate man under the surface. She'd tuck her arm into his, and he'd lean into her, and she felt like they had everything. Everything, that they'd built on struggle and heartache and doubts and commitment and love. Baghdad and the CIA were buried in the recesses of her soul that tried to claw back only when she was tired or allowed herself to have regrets, and she couldn't, wouldn't, not with the life they'd built in the Virginia hills. Part of her desperately wants to go back to that time in their lives she treasured, because those memories are comforting and safe and happy, and so easy now, in hindsight. But she knows she can't go back, and she's not quite sure she can even come home again.

The worst part of the initial transition to Washington was to not be able to talk to her husband. They'd risked espionage and national security to work together, to be the team they always were. She'd choose him before anyone, trust him above all else. When they weren't talking, even if not by choice, they lost what made them Henry and Elizabeth. And they'd figured it out, more than once, despite all of the challenges they'd faced, but now she didn't know how to figure it out. Henry came around campaign headquarters for a while, but she could never really talk to him. Every time she tried, or he tried, someone else had another phone call or decision requiring her attention, and then he was gone. And the pattern began, not neglect- not yet, she wouldn't do that, she hopes- so much as the lack of effort to persuade him back into the melee where he doesn't really want to be. She only has so much energy, and she took him for granted, took them for granted. She knows he'll be there when she needs him, but she needs him now, and can't figure out how to make him a part of this campaign, of this legacy for which she's creating the foundation. And that's more her doing than his, or even a consequence of her staff- they'd include him, even Mike B and his cynicism of ideology, all of her staff would welcome Henry's input. So would she, but she's somehow lost the connection to draw him back in. She resents herself for letting that happen, angry at her lack of care in making him a priority.

They agreed to this, both of them, and he believed in her- still believes in her, she knows he does. Remarkably, miraculously, no one believes in her more than Henry does. She wonders again, not nearly the first time, if they made the right decision, if she should have ignored Mike B and Russell and even POTUS, and just finished out Conrad's term and taken a chance with the next administration. She feels guilty for wanting to go back in time, to before that night at the Lincoln Memorial, when the fear and terror and emotions were so real, and raw, and she finally voiced what Henry already knew. When she feels the resentment stirring, the regret creeping in, she's reminded of his faith in her. So how can she second guess herself, when she'd be second-guessing him, too. After everything they've given up- that Henry has given up. He resigned his position at the White House, for her, even though Elizabeth insisted he shouldn't, that Conrad needed him, that the Dalton administration still had important work to do. He's waiting for her, patiently, waiting for her to find a place for him, to include him, and she's failing him over and over.

Her innate sense of duty to her country, her nearly gut-wrenching desire to fix humanity that constantly drives her to do more might just drive her marriage apart, and she can't reconcile the balance. She knew she made a difference as Secretary of State, but wasn't naive enough to think that the world wouldn't change in spite of her. She constantly felt like she was almost always solving problems, but never quite, wonders how much more that feeling will be magnified as President. She can't handle feeling worthless, feeling like despite her best efforts, she's not enough. Part of her knows she won't ever be enough, realistically can't ever be, not even with the power she'd be given as the leader of the free world. She's realistic and pragmatic- if she wasn't before, she is now- has experienced enough with the Company, as Secretary of State, to know she'll always just be offering temporary solutions to unsolvable problems. She pours too much of herself into her work, she always has, and the idealistic, hopeful Elizabeth isn't quite sure how she'll handle not being enough.

She has to admit the power is heady, arousing even. Not sexually, but it's a rush to have all the focus on her. All of the decisions are hers, in the end, the posters and banners and buses will carry her face, her name. People will want her input, will cater to her whims (although Elizabeth isn't like that, but still), will want her to lead them. Every aspect of this campaign, of the next year or so, is centered on Elizabeth McCord. And then, after that, she'll arguably be the most powerful woman in the world. Her name. Major power players in the political world want to stroke her ego, and while she can wade through the bullshit, she still gets a buzz from the pandering. The money being thrown her way is insane, the financial aspect of a presidential campaign far more mind-boggling than the cost of a horse or maintaining a farm. She knows she'll be paying it all back, in favors or appointments or legislation, and the mere thought makes her stomach churn. But she has to play the game, and her ego knows the odds are in her favor, her negotiation skills honed to a point very few can beat. She still gets flustered to a certain extent from the attention, because she's never wanted it, not personally. She wanted to highlight her work, the advances she's made, solutions she's created. She knows she will be one of the most famous people in the world, ultimately, as President, but that concept is so mind-blowing she can't wrap her head around it. She thinks she's annoyed at all of the focus and fanfare and accolades because she's afraid she'll really enjoy it too much. She's afraid the power will take her someplace she doesn't want to be, make her someone she doesn't want to become. She wants to be empowered, not power hungry, compassionate and not corrupt. She's all too aware of the fine, blurry line and how easy politics makes you forget the line even exists.

She nearly trips on the edge of the rug, the rug she isn't even sure belongs in the house or was a concession to protecting the floors from the foot traffic from the last few weeks. She has no idea of the time, she doesn't know where the clocks are either, can't bear to look at the phone that vibrated in her hand until she had to turn off the notifications or literally scream in frustration. She took off her watch sometime earlier in the day - she never takes off her watch, not the watch Henry gave her, the replica of her father's, when he promised to always make time for her and the kids. He made the promise, but she feels like she's breaking it. She doesn't know where the watch is, where she put it, almost like she doesn't know quite where she put her marriage. The guilt is beginning to eat at her, guilt of neglect, of losing something precious. They'd been there before, into that dark, deep hole they never thought they'd climb out of, with Baghdad, with Dmitri. Somehow they clung to their commitment and promises, to their kids, and painfully, through heartbreak and silence and anger, made their way back to each other. She knew they could survive anything, together, but even the thought of going down that path again terrifies her. She can't go there now, not with the weight of the world, literally, on her shoulders. She can't do this without Henry. McCord is his name, too, was his name first. She's proud to carry his name, and wants to make him proud of her, to live up to the name they've built together. He promised to be the man beside the woman, agreed without reservation, despite her questions and hesitation, calmed her fears, always reaffirming his unwavering belief in her. Now she's pushed him away from her, taken his promises and tossed them aside, and she doesn't know how to give back what she took away.

She enters the darkened bedroom, still unfamiliar somehow, even though she's always felt at home whenever Henry is with her. She almost wants to make noise, to give him a reason to turn on the light and chastise her, jokingly or not, for her pile of clothes on the floor, or for waking him. She can tell he's not sleeping, knows him well enough to know he's ignoring her, or avoiding her, or both. She can't blame him, not now, and part of her is relieved. What can she even say? I haven't forgotten you but I forgot you. The most important person in her life, in this journey on which she's about to embark. She slides into bed with him, almost tentatively, testing his reaction. She needs to touch him, to center herself, so tentatively runs her palm down Henry's arm, shoulder to wrist, craving the feel of his skin. She can't help but kiss him, lightly, inhaling that scent that is so uniquely him. She doesn't expect a response, so is surprised when he turns to her, arms encircling her almost desperately, and suddenly the grinding and buzzing in her brain disappears. Then his lips are on hers, and she's enveloped by him, lost in the unexpected passion, in the press of his body to hers, and then he's inside her and, oh, she needed this so badly. She'd just wanted the connection to her husband, didn't care about the pleasure, but then her orgasm hits her without warning, and, oh, she needed that, too. When she feels Henry release inside her, she's finally home and he's the man beside her, and she's his wife, and it's everything. She's so grateful and relieved and she wants to tell him how much she misses him, but all that comes out is I love you, over and over. She sinks into his embrace, skin to skin, wanting to just bask in the intimacy, the beauty of what they'd just shared, to block out the responsibility and guilt and power and stress.

But then her phone flashes from the nightstand, continually, constantly, in her peripheral vision. She should've turned it over, turned it off, but now that she's seen it, can't stop her brain from firing up, that fight or flight instinct kicking in, and she's on edge again. From experience, she knows Mike B won't stop until she answers, so she murmurs her apologies and reluctantly untangles herself from Henry to tiptoe into the bathroom, trying to protect their lovemaking from this unwanted intrusion. She's brought work home before, taken phone calls in their bedroom, interrupted sex more times than she cares to remember. But somehow, she's afraid she just crossed a line, created a chasm she won't be able to close, a gap she can't bridge. She knows her life isn't her own, even more so than before, but just wants to shut away the world and crawl back into the shelter of her husband's arms and stay there forever. She's too tired to think, too wired to make sense of the whirlwind in her head, too impatient to do more than tell Mike to back the fuck off, that tomorrow is another day. Even though she almost wishes that weren't true, because her mind and heart are weary, her body exhausted, and she can't bear the thought of doing this all over in a few hours. Somehow she's made it back to the bed, her head on the pillow, her phone in her hand, but has no recollection of the last 10 minutes and how she got there. She actually turns off her phone this time, willing her brain to shut down, too. As she finally drifts off to sleep, her body limp, her mind fuzzy, she can't escape the nagging feeling that she's forgotten something important, something she'd regret if she knew. And her last conscious thought is that she hopes tomorrow isn't too late to remember.


End file.
